


Breaking Through The Bell Jar

by NotPepa



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Bookshop, F/F, F/M, Literature, Modern AU, Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 22:35:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21260741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotPepa/pseuds/NotPepa
Summary: A forgotten bookshop brings two girls into each other's life in a way neither would have expected.OrThe one where Clarke is a lonely wedding photographer and Lexa, a lonely owner of a bookshop. Both love books.





	Breaking Through The Bell Jar

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, I know I never updated my past story but a lot of uni work got in the way and I just don't really connect with the story anymore sadly :/ 
> 
> Anyway, I recently got the idea to write this and decided Clarke and Lexa quite fit into these characterizations! It's a story about how loneliness can take over you, and how two people can ultimately break out of it together. Hope you enjoy :)

Sunday afternoons.

Clarke often feels dead inside, those Sunday afternoons.

She wakes up late that morning, draws her curtains open to reveal just the kind of weather she often revels in. The darker, cloudier days were days of reflection upon tiresome hours of work in the weekdays. They were welcoming, they let her know it was okay to be alone sometimes; to feel alone even.

And yet, hours pass and there is still an unwelcoming stillness in the air. The book she is reading doesn’t interest her, partly because she doesn’t understand where the narrative is leading her to and mainly because her heart just isn’t in it. She doesn’t bother placing a bookmark to mark her last departure, and instead places it back inside her colossal bookshelf.

The bookshelf had been one of Clarke’s greatest investments over the years; slowly but surely it filled up with books of all shapes, sizes and colours. Admittedly, at least a quarter of those books had never been touched (or left behind much like today’s), but she left that up to the drive to one day read the book. Sometimes it wasn’t the right time to read a story, and there was never a story not worth connecting to in some way – or at least that is what Clarke tried to believe – it just needed to be read at the right time, on the right day with the right feeling.

Today holds no feeling. If Clarke cannot read, she knows that there is little else she can do. She wanders into the kitchen to find a note from her roommate stuck to the fridge:

_Out for the day, please do** not** eat the leftover pizza._

_REMINDER: _

_©_ _Soggy, Greasy, Fungi Pizza property of Raven Reyes, 2019_

It’s enough to make her smile, which Clarke is always grateful for on a day like this. She spots a sharpie marker on the island behind her and uses it to write a witty reply.

_REMINDER:_

_I’m lactose intolerant._

Pleased with her addition to the note, she reaches for a slice of the leftover pizza anyway because in reality her intolerance to all things dairy has never stopped her in the past. She munches on the cold (and slightly stale) pizza as she walks around her apartment with a strong sense of delight at the thought of Raven’s face when she finds only two slices left from her copyrighted soggy, greasy, fungi pizza.

Still, the feeling only lasts as long as the pizza does, and she recognises she is swiftly back to confronting the endless emptiness of her apartment. Even with Raven’s clothes haphazardly scattered across the apartment marking her undeniable presence, Clarke wonders how she has allowed herself to fall into such a lull of loneliness. In the moments that mattered most, she was alone. Her room, her whole environment really, reeked of a solitude she imagines only the insane would be able to ignore. Maybe that’s what she was.

Her eyes drift towards the calendar, a big red cross draws her attention. ‘_Doctor’s appointment’_. At least every page on her calendar had that same note written down somewhere, scrawled in a dismissive way – no context, no thought.

She doesn’t want to think about that right now, in fact, she doesn’t want to think about much at all. With nothing urgent to take care of, and no books calling her back to read – Clarke decides what she desperately needs is a long stroll away from her safe space, into nothing and nowhere.

*

Clarke’s walk takes her to the subway, which eventually takes her into the main street and once again on foot – a side street. Her stroll has led her into an area of Manhattan she has never explored before, and it strikes in her a fear which stops her dead.

_What am I doing? _

The thought should have popped up perhaps thirty minutes ago, before she left her apartment in search of a pathetic escape from her equally pathetic life. Only, it comes up now as Clarke eyes the heavily littered street. The potent stench of old beer hits her as she realises she has stopped near a pile of garbage, and with that Clarke resumes her thoughtless walk into a side street that provides little peace of mind.

It is in this specific moment Clarke wishes she could cry, to break down and for once just _feel _everything instead of think it. But nothing happens, because nothing ever does. Months and months of living through monotonous routines had made her life seem more like that of an automated machine than a living, breathing human being.

And maybe that would be alright if she could avoid the days of restlessness – were not even the comfort of a story can draw her away from the unsettling realisation that she is utterly and irrevocably alone in the world.

She almost turns back around, convinced the commute has bittered her mood rather than helped it, but a little shop catches her eye. It is a vibrant red amongst the greying, decaying apartments and garages surrounding it. The spine of a giant book emerges out of the building, right on top of the door, with a gold inscription reading ‘_Treasure Trove’_. It is odd in its placement; a book shop stuffed away in the middle of a side street, most likely rarely visited if ever discovered in the first place.

Maybe that is why Clarke finds herself gently pushing through the glass doors to enter, a forgotten place for a forgotten girl. A bell rings as the door opens, but she finds that there is no one in sight. She tentatively looks back at the door, which confirmed that the shop was indeed open. The place is so still that a sense of guilt wells up inside of Clarke; is she intruding? Should she not be here?

Nonetheless, she cannot help but stare in wonder at the enormity of the place, which was quite literally bigger on the inside. The smell of books; new and old, send her into a state of satisfaction that only makes her curiosity about the shop grow. Clarke walks to a shelf opposite the shop keepers desk and eyes the collection of books, all by the same author.

_Wow. Someone must really like their Dickens._

“Can I help you with something?” A voice rings out from behind her so suddenly that it makes Clarke jump. She turns her head back, half expecting a stern-looking woman to chastise her uncalled for presence.

Instead, she finds inquisitive eyes. Eyes that belong to a girl not much older than herself, mid-twenties perhaps. That is the first thing that strikes Clarke, the second (on later reflection, she was embarrassed to even have thought about this) is the sheer beauty the girl undeniably possessed. Clarke often walked past beautiful people and in doing so paid very little attention to that shallow fact, simply because beauty was not a defining characteristic she believed ought to capture her attention. Except, here she is, doing exactly that.

Perhaps a semi-abandoned book shop in a side street being the last place Clarke expected to find a twenty-something gorgeous shop keeper had something to do with it, but either way she was staring. She was staring at long brown hair and and eyes a kind of green that only comes around as summer advances. Moreover, she was coming up with metaphors for green eyes in real time, meaning no reply was coming out of her mouth.

“Are you okay?”

Clarke snaps out of her regretful daze and feels a rush of pure embarrassment. “Sorry.” It comes out more like a whisper rather than anything else. “I-”

She fidgets with the loose fabric coming out of her cardigan sleeve and tries to think of a way to save her from the hole she was digging herself in. “I uhm.” She notices the girl raises an eyebrow; probably planning how she could possibly dial 911 in secret. “I like your shop.”

That’s it. That’s the best thing she can think of.

“Well.” The girl seems to relax. “I haven’t heard that in a very long time, thank you.”

It wasn’t what Clarke was expecting, but it was enough to stop her brain from short-circuiting.

“I was just walking around and it caught my attention.” She explained, hoping to sound less like a hopeless idiot. “I never really see book shops like these in Manhattan.”

“Yeah.” She sighs in response, “The placement isn’t exactly ideal, but book shops grow less and less popular nowadays anyways, what with kindles and all that.”

Her face contorts into a look of concern after she says that, “Not that I have a problem with that of course. I just find myself more drawn to an actual book in my hands, you know?”

Clarke smiles, “I understand.”

“So uh...” Her eyes motion towards the shelf behind her. “Big Dickens fan?”

This draws a smile out of the girl, which makes Clarke loosen up a little more. “Those are limited editions of all his novels, not a particularly big fan myself but someone out there might be.”

“Interesting.” She avoids maintaining eye contact for too long, purely out of residual awkwardness. “You collect books?”

She shrugs in response, “Yes and no. A lot of these books are older than they seem, this bookshop has been here since the 50’s.”

“Oh.”

The girl nods, “It was my grandfathers. He left it to me and my sister, and honestly none of us had the heart to sell it.”

“I wouldn’t.” Clarke finds herself marveling at the expanse of the bookshop. “It’s beautiful.”

“It is.” The girl walks over to Clarke and leans on the shelf next to her, crossing her arms. “But honestly, it’s also lonely.”

The admission catches Clarke off guard, and she must wear the expression all too well as the brunette’s eyes widen in embarrassment.

“I’m sorry.” She excuses herself, “I don’t know why I said that. You just wanted to see what this place was all about, not engage in small talk with a random stranger.”

She almost says that its exactly what she wants to do, but holds back in fear of sounding like a loser. “Please don’t apologise.” Clarke shoots a smile her way, a desperate attempt to convey humility. “I was actually about to ask how many people visit the shop.”

Clarke’s response elicits a small laugh out of the girl, who shrugs once again. “As you can guess, very few.” Her eyes trail around the shelves, like an artist regarding their art. “It was way more popular a while ago, but bookshops, libraries – they’re all just moving towards a past that in a few years we won’t be able to relate to anymore.” She sighs, “Public libraries are turned into luxury apartments and bookshops are rendered particularly useless in the golden age of the internet. No one needs them anymore.”

It strikes Clarke that this statement is perhaps one of the saddest she has heard in a while. She had always regarded bookshops as the highlight of her week, and a library one of the few public areas where one could be unequivocally alone without having to pay for it. It scared her that the world raced past things she thought to be so significant, that _no one needs them anymore_, could easily apply to her one day.

“I don’t want to imagine a world like that.” She says softly. “I grew up in these kinds of places.”

“Me too.”

A silence falls between them, and Clarke cannot tell if their vicinity is what makes it awkward or the fact that Clarke is just not entirely used to having semi-deep discussions with strangers.

“So.” And just like that, the conversation is in the past and reality sinks in. “I ask once again, anything I can help you with? Seeing as my job is usually to recommend and sell books, rather than discuss the despair of capitalist societies.”

“Well, the second option sounds much more enticing.” Clarke replies, “But I’ll take you up on your offer.”

The brunette smiles, and Clarke feels a sense of pride at successfully eliciting that response twice in the last ten minutes. It made her feel less hollow, less stunted.

“What are you looking for?”

_What a loaded question._

“Honestly, I have at least a dozen books I haven’t touched waiting for me at home and I didn’t go out with the intention of buying a new one.” Her eyes drift towards the endless amount of shelves and her curiosity grows. “But your shop just makes me want to feed my addiction.”

“Buying books you’ll never read?”

“No.” Clarke laughs, “Buying the _right _book.”

There’s a glint in the girls eyes as she says that, and it strikes Clarke that maybe it’s not just the book shop that makes her want to buy a new book.

“Wow.” She teases, “You’re going to make me blush.”

“That’s just my effect on people these days.” Clarke quips back, but truthfully that couldn’t be farther from the truth. “I don’t know what type of book I’m looking for exactly.” She moves the conversation back into a safer area, mainly because she cannot handle her brain short circuiting again. “How about you tell me your favorite book?”

“Mine?”

Clarke nods.

“Strange request, what if I said it was _Fifty Shades of Grey_?”

“Easy, I’d run away and never look back.”

The brunette laughs, “Alright, well let’s pretend I never said that.” She seems to deliberate for a second and then looks back at Clarke, “I don’t usually pick favorites, but there are rare occasions where I re-read a book and if I think back to one I’ve re-read too many times, it’d be _The Bell Jar_.”

“Sylvia Plath?”

“Yes, are you familiar with it?”

Clarke shrugs, “I never read her novel, but I’ve read some of her poetry.” She pauses. “A bit depressing.”

“I know.” The girl chuckles, “The novel is too, it’s quite literally about her struggles with depression actually. If you look past that though, it could really captivate you, the way she writes I mean.”

She doesn’t know what to think in that moment.

“Tell you what.” The girl walks towards her desk again, and Clarke follows. “I have an old copy somewhere in the back here, I can lend it to you and if you don’t like it you can just bring it back.”

For the second time that day, Clarke finds herself caught off guard. “You’d really trust me with that?” The shopkeeper seems to be too focused on looking for the book to respond, so Clarke continues. “Isn’t the whole point to sell books?”

“Found it!” She hands Clarke the book and dusts off her hands. “Here you go.”

She stares at the book, with its browning pages and practically broken spine. The gesture is so kind, so absurd, that it makes her grin. “You’re not very good at your job.”

“My grandfather always told me that acts of kindness are more valuable than a sense of personal gain.” She shrugs, “Today, I’m holding him to that.”

“Alright.” Clarke accepts, “But what happens if I do like it?”

“Well.” She pauses. “I guess you’ll have to come back either way, because I’d really want to know what you thought about it.”

“Not because you’d want your copy back?”

Her eyes crinkled at the corners. “Yeah, that too.”

“Well, I guess random strangers who lend me books in their own book shops ought to know my name.” She reaches her hand out to the girl. “I’m Clarke.”

“Hi Clarke.” The girl takes her hand and shakes it. “I’m Lexa.”

_Sunday afternoons_. Clarke thought. _Not so bad. _

_*_

“I genuinely hope that last slice of pizza gave you hell, Clarke.” Raven’s voice booms from the living room as she twists the key into the door. It makes Clarke smile, but then again she had been smiling like a fool for the last hour already. “You left me starving.”

Clarke places her bag on the kitchen table and walks into the living room, book in hand. “I left you two slices.”

“Yeah.” Raven looks up at her feigning anger, “When I could have had three.”

She gasps in response, “The horror!”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Her shoes come off somewhere on the way to her couch and she lands near Raven with a satisfied ‘oof’. A big part of Clarke was more than just delighted to have Raven back home, it left the apartment with a bigger presence because Raven really was that big presence. She was loud, excruciatingly honest and sometimes a plain nuisance to have around.

But she was home.

“Where were you today?” She stretches her legs out on Clarke’s lap. “I thought you kept Sundays for you and your unbelievably boring books.” She notices the book in Clarke’s hand and scoffs, “_Of course_, the only reason you’d leave the house on a Sunday is to buy another one.”

“Actually.” She smiles at the memory. “Free of charge.”

“Woah.” She takes her legs off of Clarke and sits up straight to face her. “You stole it?”

“Don’t be an idiot.” Clarke lightly kicks Raven’s shin, “The shop keeper lent it to me.”

“Did you flash him?”

“_Her_.” Clarke corrects, “And no.”

“Why not?”

She faces Raven and sighs, “Do you walk into seemingly abandoned book shops and flash the owner?”

“If they were hot maybe I would.” Raven laughs, which she often tends to do seeing as she seems to think she is the pinnacle of comical genius more often than not. “Was she hot?”

“You know this is not really how I wanted this conversation to go, right?”

“Stalling.” Raven nods to herself, “She _was_ hot.”

“That’s not the point.” But really, she _was _hot. Not that she’d admit that to Raven in this instance, of course. “It was a really kind gesture in case I didn’t like the book, I can just return it.”

“I see.” She takes the book from Clarke’s hands and flips through it. “Looks like it’s a shit book, I think she wants to see you again.”

“Come on Ray.” Clarke rolls her eyes and snatches the book back, “She could be straight for all I know.”

“Well, if you flashed her you’d know.”

Clarke slaps the back of Raven’s head, “Alright pass the remote, you are insufferable.”

“That’s what happens when you eat my trademarked pizza.”

She sighs harder in response, but it dawns upon her that this moment is perfect the way it is. She focuses on the moment, because often, there are only those to rely on. This moment, with her book and her best friend – is more than she can ask for.

\--


End file.
